Mean Jews Suck
by Lady Emzebel
Summary: ...but nice jews swallow. So, essentially, herein is provided some Kyman fanservice and the Imaginationland scene EVERYBODY secretly wanted. No, don't even try to deny it. You know you wanted it. "Come, pay homage to the Sultan's balls."


Title: Mean Jews Suck, Nice Jews Swallow

Rating: M

Pairing: Cartman/Kyle

Warnings: Slash. Graphic language. Feel free to imagine the boys older than they currently are. I know it's the only way _I_ could get through writing this fic.

Disclaimer: South Park and all characters therein belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Aladdin belongs to Disney. That is all.

A/N: Yeah, so being the total slash-whore that I am, I was scouring deviantART for Imaginationland smut (Fanfiction having yielded absolutely zilch results) and came across this little beauty. I certainly hope this ficlet does it justice. http: / hot-choc. deviantart. com/art/ SP-come-peasant-kyle-156674272?q=boost%3 Apopular+kyle+cartman +sultan&qo=0

(Remove the spaces before you hit enter once you've copied and pasted it in the URL bar.)

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He sits on a grand throne—well, actually, it's more of a futon really—draped with lavish silks and luxurious cushions; he is dressed as a Sultan, clothed in hues as bright as a peacock, with a vest that displays his generous belly, loose, billowing pants, a towering, bejewelled turban, and those nifty shoes that curl up at the toes, like the ones street rat Aladdin wore after the genie made him a Prince.

The Sultan scoffs at the thought; he can't imagine what powerful ruler would allow peasant scum to run around with something as powerful as three wishes. Jafar had the right idea, though in the Sultan's eyes the power-hungry Arab sorcerer probably could have gone further when incapacitating that wholesome thieving pest. Perhaps by slicing off all this extremities, digging out his eyes, and then throwing him in a dung heap to rot away as he listened to the screams of his hoity-toity princess getting vag-rammed by that irritating parrot for being the cock-tease she was.

And speaking of cock-teasers...

All those gathered, like tropical birds with their bright-coloured plumage and shallow, incessant chatter, fall silent when the Sultan raises a single wrathful hand. Their great ruler has spotted his prey and he smirks as he knows it has no choice but to be ensnared in his sticky spider's web. The nymph-like boy with hair of fire reluctantly drags his feet as he makes his way up the path to the doorway of the Sultan's house, escorted to his doom by a blue-and-red hooded 'executioner'.

"Yes...yes, do come forth Kyle. Pay homage to the Sultan's balls."

As he stands before the Sultan, arguments and excuses, threats and pleas, all fall from those delicious covetous Jew lips but to no avail. A snap of the Sultan's fingers causes the boy's clothes to peel limply from his supple frame and they slither away like snakes only to be replaced by a typical slave girl's garb: an indecently short skirt of jade-green cotton, slit up both sides and held together only by two thin golden rings. Multiple bangles chime and ring as they encircle his wrists and ankles like manacles, two dripping from his ears like pale, hollow suns; finally, one clicks shut around his glorious swan-graceful neck, a collar, denoting the Jew's ownership to the Sultan.

The redheaded boy kneels at the Sultan's feet, his lightly freckled face flaming with humiliation as the Sultan scoots forward to the edge of his seat and smugly reaches for the waistband of his billowy cotton pants. With his other hand he is quick to grasp the back of his slave boy's neck, guiding his head forward between eagerly parted legs.

"Craig," the Sultan commands sharply, suddenly, and one of his dark-haired courtiers, dressed in midnight-blue with canary-yellow trim, steps forward, respectfully saluting his tyrant-king with a single middle finger. The Jew-slave waits, hunkering down on his hands and knees like a dog, his shapely posterior flushed as cold sweat trickles down the dip of his spine to settle in the small of his back. He glares up at the Sultan, cold, helpless hatred seething in those comely green orbs. The Sultan smirks triumphantly, meeting the slave boy's defiant stare. His own eyes are gleaming with sadistic glee as he burrows his thick fingers in the Jew's tangle of flaming curls. The Sultan turns his attention to his courtier.

"You have the device?"

It is posed as a question, but all those assembled know that there was but one course of action the aforementioned Craig should take lest he wishes his head be forcibly removed. The black-haired noble salutes the Sultan once more before drawing a silvery cubic device from the bag hanging at his side.

"I have it," is the monotone reply.

The Sultan's smile cannot get any wider or more bloodthirsty.

"Good good. It would not do for this to not be remembered for all of eternity."

Craig shrugs and fiddles with the mysterious device, intending to do the Sultan's bidding and ensure that the proceedings were forever more trapped in a series of moving pictures that could be watched over and over again. After all, it was not for naught that many coins jingle in his pockets, bestowed upon Craig by the Sultan himself, the very Sultan who has, at his point, turned his attention back to the trembling slave boy between his knees. The lounge-pants are pulled down as far as the Sultan's dimpled knees, revealing the flaccid organ and its twin accompaniments.

"Well Kahl...open wide," the Sultan hisses. "_Open wide and draw upon them succulently for no less than thirty seconds_."

The Jew slave chokes on a strangled whimper but obeys.

The Sultan's balls are suddenly enveloped in slick heat and the first tentative rasp of the Jew slave's tongue on his swollen sack blazes hotter than a thousand suns on the Arabian Desert; it drags more roughly than fiery orange sands whipped about by the angry wind, and; it's wetter than any sweet oasis in the midst of a scorching barren plain. It is sheer heaven, and the Sultan's head falls back in blissful rapture as his fingers tighten in those bloody-crimson curls.

"Yes...that's it Kahl," he exhales breathily. "That's the way to do it."

A few more swipes of that sinfully _hot rough wet_ muscle against his most sensitive boy parts has the Sultan erect and weeping milky tears of ecstasy. Craig, standing a little off to the side and witnessing the ordeal in its entirety, shuffles from foot to foot awkwardly and tries to ignore how the Sultan's laboured moans and the muffled whimpers and trickles of drool issuing from the redhead's mouth are making his pants feel a helluva lot tighter.

Without warning, the slave boy hollows his cheeks, slurping obscenely around the salty flesh in his mouth. The Sultan knows not whether this is intentional or otherwise; quite frankly, he doesn't care. His vision has blanked to snowy white, with pearly black spots dotted here and there. He can't breathe; he can't think, at least not about anything but getting Kyle to do that again and again and again...

A tongue on his standing soldier draws him back to reality a little. That wasn't part of the deal.

As his vision clears, the Sultan sees Craig in his peripheral, struggling to keep his face stoic and the video camera aimed where it's supposed to be even as he rubs the front of his bulging pants. Angling his gaze down he's surprised to find the Jew boy smirking back up at him, coyly tonguing the slit of his cock. Kyle smiles, showing razor sharp teeth, and says softly—

"Don't trust your enemies anywhere they can potentially damage."

—before sinking his fangs into the sensitive head, and ripping upwards. Instantaneously, the entire organ explodes into dust—thick, grey, choking dust—like that which you might scrape off the bottom of a riverbed after years and years of drought.

Sixteen year old Eric Cartman wakes with a strangled yell, sitting bolt upright and sending his old, threadbare stuffy, Clydefrog, hurtling into the darkness, well beyond the boundaries of the bed. Eric doesn't notice; he has more pressing matters at hand. Like the well-sized tent that has sprung up under his bed sheets, leaking precum and making a sticky mess of his Cheesy Poof-print boxers.

"Fucking dick! You will respect mah authoritah!"

Swearing violently in equal parts English, German and Spanish, as well cursing each and every deity known (and several unknown) to man, Eric spits in his hand and thrusts it down his pants to tug and fondle furiously at the throbbing appendage, all the while clinging to the last tantalizing vestiges of that vivid dream. Even to this day, the events leading up to and within Imaginationland from seven years ago still haunt him as he lies vulnerable in sleep. A tortured howl erupts from his throat, startling his mother in the room next door, as well as half the neighbours down the street, into wakefulness.

"Goddamn fucking Jew bitch! Kahl! If it's the last thing I ever do, _you_ _WILL_ _**SUCK MY BALLS**_!"


End file.
